


Lie to me

by orphan_account



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: M/M, anton set this up entirely, it got away from me a little, saracen centric kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Saracen Rue knows things. Only they're never the important ones.





	Lie to me

The air is thick and humid and the sun beats down harshly, reflected in the sharp heat of the pavement. Saracen shields his eyes with his arm, squinting at his destination. The Midnight Hotel looms at the end of the one-way street, a dark contrast to the bright colors of midday Brazil in the summer.

  
He lowers his gaze and quickens his pace, reaching the building and rapping his knuckles sharply upon the sturdy wooden door. It swings inwards of its own accord, moments after he walks in. Saracen doesn’t react, walking into the hallway, and the door shuts itself behind him.

He continues down the hall, heading to the reception and stopping once he reaches the desk. He coughs lightly, and a grin spreads across his face.

"Saracen,” greets the man behind the counter, without looking up. “What are you doing here?”

His grin widen and he clutches his chest in mock hurt. “I can’t even visit my oldest friend without getting my motives questioned?”

"No,” replies the man

"As verbose as ever, I see,” Saracen nods.

Anton Shudder looks up from his ledger and stares at him. Saracen’s smile softens at the edges, becoming more genuine.

"It’s good to see you.” He says, honestly. Anton raises his eyebrows.

"You too,” He says, almost begrudgingly. Saracen smiles at him anyways, wide and easy, and accepts the key that Anton hands him.

  
He climbs the stairs quickly, familiarly. His feet know exactly where to step. This isn’t his first stay at the Midnight Hotel. Not even close.

He finds his room, with a gray plaque on the door that reads “Number Sixteen”. Saracen knows what he’s going to see before he pushes it open. Each room is identical, has been for decades. Twin bed, small table. Armchairs that were always in the condition of not quite new but not seemingly used. The minimum requirements of an average hotel room, in dire need of some décor. He smiles absently; Anton has always been a bare necessities kind of person.

He steps inside, tossing his small bag onto the chair. He sits down on the bed, pulling off his shoes. Already he can feel the fatigue pressing down on him, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. He manages to take off his shirt before collapsing backwards and giving in to the welcoming embrace of sleep.

 When he wakes up, the sun has sunk down the horizon, spilling out its final oranges and yellows into a dusky pink sky. The clouds are high and bare, pushing steadily along the sky’s topmost reaches, gleaming additions to its broad warm expanse. Saracen feels weirdly energetic and gets out of bed quickly, getting dresses with far too much enthusiasm. He puts his shoes on, wondering if the hotel had a bar.

He clatters down the stairs, narrowly avoiding collision with a beaked woman on the way. Saracen smiles at her charmingly, and he thought she might’ve smiled back, although it wasn’t very easy to tell.

"Good evening,” he says smoothly to the man skulking at the door leading into the common area. The man blinks at him and Saracen sees that his eyes are a pure sharp white, with no pupils whatsoever. His smile widens, and he winks at the startled man before opening the door and letting himself through.

This room was practically empty. Most of the guests were out, presumably somewhere scenic admiring the sunset. He sees a pair of women talking animatedly on a couch, seemingly normal. But he knew better. Either one of them could be harboring strange, possibly violent secrets, the like of which could prove fatal to any who discovered them. He exhales, smiling, moving on towards the next room. It was good to be back.

The lights were different there, colored and temperamental. Smooth jazz fills in the edges, giving the room a chilled atmosphere, and he lets it wash over him, relaxing his shoulders.

Saracen strolls over to the bar, grinning at the man stationed behind.

"I have to say, Anton, I like what you’ve done with the place.” He says, pulling up a stool and sitting down. His elbows immediately find their way onto the surface of the bar, resting there lightly.

Anton grunts, reaching below the counter and taking out a couple of glasses. Saracen watches him mix a drink, uncorking bottles and splashing them carefully into the tall wineglass.

"For the lady,” he says finally, offering it to him. Saracen arches an eyebrow challengingly as he accepts, holding the other man’s gaze. He keeps making eye contact until Anton tilts his head slightly, questioningly, and then he attempts to throw back his head and gulp it down in one go.

“Now that wasn’t very ladylike,” Anton observes, the faintest glimmer of a smile visible on his face as he coughs and splutters. Saracen attempts to deliver a scathing reply, something classy like, “Your customer service is abysmal,” but ultimately he fails. His friend pats him on the back consolingly then moves on, no doubt on his way to poison another unsuspecting resident of the hotel.

He sets down his empty drink, resting his head on his arms. His lips twist up wryly.  
Having lived amongst mortals for the past few decades, Saracen had grown accustomed to their polite distance. It felt good to be amongst sorcerers, and to be amongst friends. The light jazz fades into a soft but insistent beat, barely audible but audible it is and surprisingly catchy. He finds himself nodding along.

And then he hears a voice, deep and familiar, and his heart skips a beat.

It sounds again and he swallows, with difficulty. He’s supposed to know things, His entire life, his whole existence seemingly revolves around his ability to just know things, and yet. And yet, he hadn’t known this was coming.

He hears footsteps behind him, the soft thump of leather outside boots, and he almost laughs out loud, because of course. Of course this is happening.

The footsteps stop abruptly. He hears a quick intake of breath. He’s holding his breath, and his mouth has run dry with nervous anticipation.

"Saracen?” says Dexter Vex hesitantly, from behind him.

Saracen licks his lips. He closes his eyes. Then he turns around.

"Long time no see.”

* * *

 

 "I don’t believe you,” Dexter shrugs, lifting his drink to his mouth

"It’s the truth!” Saracen swears, crossing his fingers. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Dexter squints at him. “Is that a trick question?”

“It’s a hundred percent genuine curiosity.” Saracen says. His expression is serious, but not without considerable effort being expended. It’s rather hard, when all he wants to do is smile till his cheeks hurt.

It’s difficult now to believe that he’d been so shaky upon hearing his voice. He supposes it had something to do with the way they parted- on not so pleasant terms.  
The air around them had been fraught with tension, and in the last few days they had mostly avoided being alone together. Neither had wanted to broach of the topic of them, and how they would keep up being together once they were no longer fighting for their lives. No longer fighting for each other’s lives. It had seemed like such an intimidating concept; and so Saracen had left it alone. And gone on leaving it alone, until the war was over, and the Dead Men disbanded, and they were on opposite sides of the world. No contact for almost forty years.

Until now.

And they were both still ignoring it.

"Well.” Dexter said thoughtfully, stretching out the vowel. He looks at Saracen, his eyes glinting, and Saracen feels slightly apprehensive for some reason.

"There was that time,” Dexter says. “Do you remember-? We were in Scotland, I think, with the others.”

“Scotland?” says Saracen, taking a sip of the drink that Anton had poured and wincing at its strength. Maybe their friends weren’t as unaware as he’d presumed.

"Mm, yeah.” Dexter nods, lifting his beer up to his mouth. Saracen follows the movement discreetly, watching the familiar stretch of his throat and the bob as he swallows. He takes another sip himself, licking his lips.

“The first part was just recon. A simple stakeout, we’d done it a hundred times before. But the target area was pretty big, so we had to split up,” Dexter says, cradling his glass in his hand, and Saracen frowns as he tries to remember.

“Groups of two. Anton and Larrikin. Skulduggery and Ghastly.” Dexter looks at him, holding his gaze. “Me and you.”

Saracen stares, forehead creasing. The way Dexter said it made it seem significant and he strains to recall, when…?

"Were we-” he begins to say, the cuts himself off, biting his lip. “Were we looking someone called- Nathaniel, something?”

He thinks he catches a flash of something in Dexter’s eyes, the slightest upward twist of his mouth, but it’s smoothed over in seconds and Dexter nods.

"Yeah. He had information, a lead on Serpine or maybe the Book, I don’t remember.”

“Not the Book, that was before-” Saracen says- and stops again. Despite himself he can feel his face warming and hopes Dexter doesn’t notice.

When he looks up at him, his eyes are dark.

“You remember?” Dexter asks. Saracen’s throat is tight and he doesn’t answer, shaking his head instead. Dexter doesn’t seem fazed.  
“It was late night, almost morning.” His voice is pitched lower than before. “We were in this rundown mill thing, a little distance from the camp.” Which one of them had leaned closer? Saracen didn’t quite care.

"We were bored, you know, and the camp was quiet, and the others were in position anyways, so what was the point of constant alert, right?”

As convincing as ever, he thinks, and is immediately surprised that he even has the capacity to, with Dexter so close and looking at him like that. He tries to focus on the story to keep his gaze from flickering down, and fails miserably.

"So we decided to… distract ourselves.” Dexter says to him, in almost a whisper, and all of a sudden Saracen remembers. He remembers the discarded shirts and the fingers in his hair, remembers the poorly concealed desperation and those exact words, in another time and place, pressed against his lips.

"We could just… distract ourselves,” he’d suggested, and grinned at him, that mischievous grin of his, and Saracen had been powerless to resist.

He clears his throat, coughing lightly. “I remember,” he says. He drinks from his glass, and is only a little bit surprised to find that it’s nearly empty.

Dexter grins at him, and there’s something secretive about it, something pointed, and Saracen wants to find out what, he wants to know.

"And in the morning, about an hour after we-you know- finished,” he says meaningfully, the double entendre clear. Saracen shakes his head, sighing lightly. A smile, unbidden, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Erskine walks in.” Dexter finishes, leaning back.

Saracen’s smile turns into a grin and the other man reciprocates, both of them reveling in the ease of each other’s company and a shared past. Mostly though, Saracen feels an overwhelming sense of relief that they aren’t avoiding the topic of- well- them, anymore.

“He was scandalized.” Saracen laughs. “I had to feed him some lie about sharing body heat-“

He stops. He looks at Dexter who is looking back at him, smug expression on his face.  
“Are you being serious right now,” He says, deadpan.

His expression gets even more self-satisfied, if it were possible. “One hundred percent genuine,” he parrots, crossing his arms.  
“I didn’t lie to you, though,” Saracen points out, picking up his drink and finishing it.

"No, you lied about me,” Dexter returns, making a face at him. “You’re not ashamed of me, are you, Rue?”

His eyes have that glint, and he’s smiling, Saracen can tell, because his nose is a little scrunched and he has dimples. It shouldn’t make him as stupidly happy as it does, but then again, he never did like doing what he should. And Dexter is someone he probably definitely should not do, but will do anyways, because he is completely, and utterly, gone for the man.

"Never,” he says quietly, and then he’s smiling helplessly. It’s almost alarmingly easy for him to smile around Dexter.

Almost alarming, he thinks, as Dexter smiles back, just as genuine, just as irrepressible.

Mostly easy, he thinks, as he tugs him in gently and kisses him, as soft as his smile.

It’s a familiar give and take, and Saracen loses himself in it. In the feeling of Dexter, sweet and overwhelming. He pulls away after a few seconds, but doesn’t move very far, looking into Dexter’s deep blue eyes, something indescribably warm spreading through his chest.

“Show me to your room?” Dexter says, lips quirking.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! if u liked it leave a kudos or a comment and u can find me on tumblr [@nebulapologist](https://nebulapologist.tumblr.com)


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